Frightful News
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: After trying to shield his wife from terrifying tales, Lord Beckett finds himself peering into the shadows with a different perspective. Oneshot


**Author's Note: **Hello and welcome to "Frightful News". I wrote this fic a few weeks before Halloween when I wanted to avoid studying for my midterm exam. It contains an ounce of fluff, a dash of horror and some humor. This takes place about two years before "My Friendliest" and does not follow the letter format, but switches over to 3rd person. Any and all feedback is greatly welcomed. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters. I don't have a beta, so any grammatical or spelling errors that occur are my fault and my fault alone.

**Frightful News**

"What do you read?"

Lord Beckett glanced over the rim of the parchment and observed his wife, tucked in the winged chair by the fireplace. A book lay open on her lap.

"News from London." He shrugged and enjoyed the practiced consternation that flitted across her countenance. Anne's eyes moved from the book, to the fire and then to him. She was struggling over some Marcus Aurelius. He knew her Latin wasn't the best, but she kept up the constant battle of picking through the endless prose in search of higher wisdom. He had to admire her for that.

But Anne's sudden interest in his paper confused him. She normally laid aside the packet when it came by post rider and bustled about to pursue something she considered more intellectually stimulating.

"Why do you ask, darling?"

Beckett saw her eyebrows arch in the firelight and he relished in the way the shadows licked her pale skin. She wore her crimson dressing robe this night and it made her appear wraithlike, ethereal.

"Curiosity." Anne smiled that open-mouthed smile of hers, when she was either ashamed or too haughty to admit it. "What else does it say?"

"Well, there are several notices for runaways, horses for sale, a fashionable apartment for rent and…" He trailed off, his thumb skimming over the story that most caught his eye. No, it would be too disturbing for her.

"Surely there is more." She sounded incredulous. He saw her half-rise out of the chair. "Let me see."

"There is little more." He snapped the paper shut and stood, keeping it grasped in his hand. His feet took him to the window. Fog brushed the panes and stretched out over the lawns. An early frost dusted the grass, almost invisible without the light of the moon. Clouds chased each other across the black sky. A shiver traced Beckett's spine.

"It is cold," Anne whispered. "The flowers are dying." The melancholy in her voice made him turn. She stood inches away, pressing her hands against his back. "I am cold."

A smile reached his lips. "Not for long."

She rested her forehead against his shoulder. Her hands slipped around his waist. Unfortunately, he did not realize her fingers closing around the paper.

"Ah-ha!" She yanked it away and fled back to hearth. The paper unfolded before her, a dove's wings touched by firelight. "This Thursday evening, a cruel rascal, a highwayman haunting the roads between London and Blackheath, robbed a family traveling by stagecoach."

"Anne, give it back." He held out his hand but even he did not expect her to comply. She glanced up at him once and continued to read aloud.

"A worthy gentleman, Mr. Corey attempted to forestall the fiend by use of his pistol, but found his throat slashed in the struggle."

"You should not read of such devilry." Beckett advanced on her but she slid away and around the chair. "You will sleep in terror!" His rose voice in warning but his wife laughed.

"Oh, Cutler, don't be foolish." Her eyes continued to dart along the paper. Her thin fingers folded over the edge like icicles. "It's all very exciting in a way, don't you think?"

"Ladies of proper breeding should not be exposed to violence and vulgarity." Beckett took a step forward, barely swallowing his frustration as she pattered away once more. "Nightmares will chase you for the rest of week."

She made a face and spun further into the shadows as he chased her. "Harriet and I used to tell each other ghost stories all the time. This is not very different."

"No, childhood fables are quite the same as vicious murders." He sighed and rested his arms over the back of the winged chair. She frowned at his sarcasm.

"Are you saying women are more fearful creatures than men?"

"Yes."

Her frown deepened and at once he knew he had said the wrong thing.

"Very well." She tossed the paper back at him. "I fancy a cup of tea…upstairs." Beckett gnawed at his lower lip. That meant he was not invited along with her.

She said nothing more, but held her head high and whisked through the shadows to the corridor. The door opened and shut with a smart snap behind her.

Beckett stumbled back to his own chair and dropped the paper at his feet. Anne wouldn't stay mad for long, but just long enough to torment him. The embers trembled in the hearth. The heat of the last flames touched his face only to be replaced by the chill of the wind seeping in through the window.

He groaned. The shutters had been left open. Another gust strained against the glass. Beckett rose and tried to ignore the cold air that rushed over him. His shirtsleeves provided little warmth with the fire dying and judging from the frost, the weather would only worsen.

He reached for the first shutter and swung it over, locking it in place before groping for the second. His eyes swept the lawns one last time as he made to close the second and frigid fear encased his body.

A slice of moonlight parted the clouds and illuminated a figure stealing over the lawns. Something akin to a black cloak billowed about the person's shoulder and a long shaft, a rapier perhaps, floated by his side.

Beckett froze for an instant but then remembered his indifference to danger. Without a sound, he moved towards the call bell and pulled the cord once. He'd send a few servants out to chase the man away.

A long minute past and no servants came. He yanked at the cord this time, nearly ripping it in half. Not a soul stirred.

The refrains of an old ballad skipped through his mind, mocking him with a gleeful tone. Beckett remembered the story of Long Lankin, a villain who crept up to the house when the lord was away and murdered the lady with the aid of a nursemaid. What if his servants had turned on him?

Beckett pushed away his irrational thoughts but the strains of the song still haunted him.

_There was blood all in the kitchen, there was blood all in the hall, there was blood all in the parlor, where my lady she did fall._

He shook his head once and forced himself to concentrate. His pistol and rapier lay across the corridor in his study. But what if the rascal had already found his way into the house? He might have gone through the kitchen by the back and murdered most of the servants already. No wonder why no one heeded his call.

Could he make it across the hall in time? Or would the man lunge out from the darkness and slash his throat like poor Mr. Corey on the road to Blackheath?

Beckett grimaced at his indecision. Perhaps the man had gone away, he assured himself. There was no reason for such apprehension. He turned his head back towards the lawn, eyes straining to see outside the half shuttered window.

He saw nothing.

A sigh of relief pressed against his lips. Beckett felt himself sag under the weight of needless anxiety. He edged his way back to the window for a better look outside. But before he could move a step closer, the figure reappeared and pounded upon the glass.

Beckett could not contain the strangled cry that rose within him. He leapt back and gasped, fear thudding in his chest along with his racing heart.

"Forgive me, your lordship!" John the gardener cried, shovel in hand. "I'm sorry to have startled ye. I was just trying to save the flowers from the frost. I know how sore vexed her ladyship would be to lose them all so early."

"Oh…I…" Beckett stumbled over his words for an instant. "Good man, John," he said at last, his voice firm though his legs did not cease trembling.

"Thank ye, my lord. G'night." John ducked under the window once more as Beckett furiously latched the shutters.

And somewhere up the stairs, with the sound of her husband's yelp ringing in her ears, Anne had herself a good laugh.

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading! The next one-shot will be posted next week.


End file.
